


not gonna listen to what the past says

by liveonthesun



Series: saved too many times [2]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Brainwashing, F/M, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 13:12:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liveonthesun/pseuds/liveonthesun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a fine line they're made to walk, between knowing themselves, but still knowing what they are, who they belong to, how they are used.</p><p>She's getting tired of it, and she thinks that he is, too. Maybe, together, they can come up with a way out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not gonna listen to what the past says

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [they say that the world was built for two](http://archiveofourown.org/works/417645). There will be two more parts after this, but they should be up next weekend and not two months from now. I was not expecting this to turn into a series when I wrote the first part.
> 
> There is also a reference to [this deleted scene](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5phpuTutGlk) from _Iron Man 2_ , because I saw a gifset on tumblr and fell in love.
> 
> Betaed by the fab [CallMeBombshell](http://archiveofourown.org/users/callmebombshell).

"It's good to meet you," the Winter Soldier says as he holds out his hand, his calloused skin rough against her own when she takes it. "They tell me you're the best."

"I've heard the same about you," she replies.

He smiles at her and she smiles back. She smiles and doesn't turn to take out the men standing around them, doesn't turn to see the smirks on their faces, so damn proud of themselves for putting her through this.

They never wipe her memory — they sometimes take over and mold her into what they want her to be, give her memories that aren't hers — but they always restore her to herself. They always wipe his, however, and he's told her that he knows there are gaps in his mind, but he doesn't know why they take and leave what they do. It's a fine line they're made to walk, between knowing themselves, but still knowing what they are, who they belong to, how they are used.

She's getting tired of it, and she thinks that he is, too. Maybe, together, they can come up with a way out.

Their first mission together lasted three months — a tour of Europe, taking the lives and research of scientists and pressing promises and secrets into each others' bodies afterwards.

The second time had been a test. Throwing them in a room together day after day to see what happened. She'd ended it after three weeks, kissing him to see if maybe, just maybe, she was still somewhere in his mind.

The third, fourth, and fifth jobs had lasted a couple of days — get in, get it done, and get out.

Which makes this the sixth time he's introduced himself to her and the sixth time she's shaken his hand and said she looks forward to working with him. It's a longer mission this time. She could tell during the briefing that they were nervous sending them out alone together, but the two of them are the best they've got and the needs outweigh the risks.

He doesn't remember her, but, as it turns out, he doesn't have to.

It's the day before they're done when he kisses her in a room in a run-down hotel in Budapest. She pulls him down on top of her and then everything is skin and sweat and too-fast breath. "This isn't okay," he says with his mouth against her stomach, his hands, one warm and one cold, on her hips.

"Is anything we do?"

"Not really, no."

He laughs and the sound vibrates through her body, causing her to arch her hips up closer to him.

Later, when they're stretched-out and sated, she takes her chance and says, "We can't do this when we go back."

He turns to face her, is quiet for a few seconds, and then softly, carefully, as if he's afraid they'll hear, he answers, "Maybe we won't go back."

She smiles wide and then pulls him in for a kiss.

They spend the rest of the evening plotting it out. Their final mark is to be dead by the next evening, but there's an American (SHIELD, they figure) who has been following them for a week now. She is better at communications, so she'll confront him, convince him she's friendly and that they want to go with him. The Soldier will take out the target, then they'll meet at the train station and take off, a quiet escape into the dead of night.

The American takes some convincing, but she'd figured he would, and at the first sign that he trusts her, she places all her weapons at his feet and holds her hands out to be cuffed. "Please," she says, "I just need to get out." She doesn't realize how much she means it until the words are out of her mouth. 

She can tell he's still skeptical, and he agrees, but keeps an arrow ready to be shot just in case.

The Soldier doesn't make it to the station. Men from the Red Room, however, do.

The American calls in for transport, throws her two guns and between her bullets and his arrows, they kill four and debilitate the rest. A SHIELD helicopter arrives and she screams that they can't go can't go, they'll kill him, god what will they do to him, but the American takes her by the arm tells her it's now or never, and she stops, decides that her mind, her will, her autonomy, is more important than her heart, takes a deep breath, and goes.

She spends three days in her room, joy and sorrow and relief and heartbreak spilling over, and she can't remember ever crying this much, can't remember crying _ever_ , really. It's the most she's ever let herself let go, and it's too many years of repression breaking out and she's not sure what's supposed to take its place, and so she just feels empty. She's turned her back on everything she was brought up to love, betraying it for everything she was taught to hate. She misses the Red Room, hates herself for missing it, but it's the only life she's ever known and she's realizing that she doesn't know what she's supposed to do without it. 

On the fourth day she is quiet. She stays curled up on her bed, but doesn't cry. When they bring her food that afternoon, Nick Fury is with them. She sits up when she sees him.

"Doing better?" he asks.

"I don't know."

"Are you ready to talk?"

"Yes," she answers, and feels herself tense up even as he opens his mouth to reply. "Yes. But we're doing this all on my terms. I didn't come here just to be used again. I can still go back, because if I'm going to belong to someone, I'd at least rather belong to someone I know."

"I can respect that," he says, "I'll leave you until you've figured out how you want to do this. The guard outside your room can bring you to my office when you're ready."

He nods at her before turning to leave, and as the door closes behind him, she feels more relaxed than she has in years.

 

*

 

"I read your file," Clint says, "or as much as they would let me, which wasn't much, actually, but enough that it I can tell you've been through hell."

"Do you want something?" she asks. She's still not used to this, people spending time with her, not because they have missions together or they need to train her for something or get information, but simply because they seem to want to.

"Just figured I'd see how you were holding up."

"I'm doing well, I think. I've never had this much of my own time, though. It's been nice, to think, to figure out what my own ideas are and what's been fed to me my whole life."

He smiles at her, lets out a low laugh. "We do plenty of that over here, too, unfortunately. It's not as direct, no actual brainwashing, but there are people who probably wish we could."

She rolls her eyes and smiles back. "There always will be. As long as there's no mind control, though, I think I can hold my own."

It's a careful game, she's playing, trying to figure out how many of the barriers she's built over her life should be torn down, how much of herself she should make vulnerable to others. Clint is easy, with his quick smiles and it's just a few more visits before she starts associating the word _friend_ with him. 

As much as she enjoys time with him, though, there's always the panic when he leaves. She worries that she's shared too much, that she's becoming too comfortable, that she's only setting herself up to be used and taken advantage of again.

 _It will get better,_ she tells herself, _this will get easier_. And slowly but surely, as she laughs more and panics less, it does.

 

*

 

"Wanna give it a shot?" Tony asks, mouth curled into a half-smile.

Natasha was six years old when she fired her first gun, twelve when she killed her first man.

She misses it, not the killing, no, but the thrill of a new weapon. They can put new guns in her hands over and over, _cock, click, crack_ , but the power behind them is still the same, just more or less depending on size.

Tony slides the gauntlet over her wrist, stands behind her and puts his arm around her waist, unnecessary, really, but she lets it stay there. She wriggles her fingers, feels the metal fold around them, feels the trigger she'll press with her index finger when Tony stops talking and says, _go_.

"Nail it," he says, and _oh_ , but that's wonderful. It tingles down her arm and she can feel the pressure build, growing as the sound pitches higher, feels like it's coming from inside her and not from a machine she's wearing. And then the kick as it fires sends her back against him, and she's been firing guns since she was six years old, but would have stumbled if Tony Stark hadn't been behind her. It'd be embarrassing, really, if she wasn't giddy from it all.

She'll have to talk to him when this is all over, get him to make something, small and discreet, of course, but just as powerful and just for her.

The night goes to hell, because where else was it going to go? She finds Pepper later, sitting in the rubble and looking tired and broken, and sits down next to her.

"I'm sorry," she says, because she's seen the accusations in Pepper's eyes.

"No," Pepper says, "no, it's not your fault." She takes a deep breath. The exhale is shakey. "He won't talk to me. Something is wrong, and he won't tell me what. I know he thinks of me as his, his rock, but I don't know how to be that when he won't tell me what he needs."

Natasha almost breaks right there, tells Pepper everything about the palladium poisoning and Vanko and Howard's research. It's not going to be much longer before it all comes out anyway. She's not sure why Pepper should have to suffer through it, honestly.

Those aren't her decisions to make, though, so she stands up, and reaches out a hand to help Pepper do the same. "You should sleep, Ms. Potts."

Pepper looks over her shoulder as she stands, glances over the mess and opens her mouth to protest. "No," Natasha says. "I'll take care of it. Go, take a shower, go to sleep, and trust that Mr. Stark will come to his senses before it's too late. He's an idiot, yes, but he knows what he needs to survive."

Pepper gives her a small smile and says, "That's true." Then she straightens her shoulders, smooths out her dress, and turns leave the room.

Natasha watches her go and she thinks that probably, under different circumstances, they would get along quite well.

 

*

 

"You want to know a secret?" Natasha asks. She's sitting down with her legs stretched out in front of her, leaning against the railing of Steve's tiny balcony. He's sitting across from her, his knees pulled up and his arms resting over them. He sets his beer down next to his feet and looks up at her, a corner of his mouth curving into a smile. "About you?"

"Yep."

"You won't have to kill me after you tell me, will you?"

"I'll try not to."

"Shoot."

"I'm actually only ten years younger than you are."

Steve freezes for a second with his beer halfway to his mouth and blinks. "I'm guessing you don't mean you're eighteen, do you?"

"Surprise!"

He leans his head back against the brick wall and laughs — deep, full body laughs like she's never seen from him before. It's good, really good, to see him this way, rather than the tense man who always looks like he's actually somewhere ( _sometime?_ ) else. She smiles and kicks his shin. "Don't tell anyone," she says. "It's no secret that I've been around for a while, but there are very few people who know exactly how long."

"Yeah," Steve says, laughter stopped, but smile still huge. "I wondered why the hell your birthday would be classified. I mean, everything else in your file pretty much was, but the birthday just seemed a little extreme." He takes a drink and turns his head to look at her. "So can you tell me how you don't look a day over twenty-five?"

"Super-serum," she answers, and Steve's smile goes down a little as he raises an eyebrow at her. "No one has been able to fully replicate Erskine's, but some people have gotten parts of it right. Fast healing and slow aging? Weren't that hard to find in the forties and fifties if you had the right connections."

"And you had them." He's solemn now, though not in a bad way, just with a very focused intrigue.

She smiles. "Oh, honey, I _was_ the right connections, and I can't get too much into that. I know you're curious, though, so I'll tell you that I was eighteen at the time, and, no, it wasn't my idea. I don't think I would have chosen to if it had been up to me."

"Do you regret it?"

She sighs and chews on her bottom lip for a few seconds, unsure of exactly how to answer. "It's not that I regret that it happened," she starts slowly. "I'm here right now and I'm happy right now and I don't think I would let go of right now for anything in the world. But sometimes I can't tell whether time is going too fast or too slow for me. I mean, I think about how I'm already eighty-five, and it feels like everything has gone by too quickly, but then I realize that physically I'm somewhere in my late twenties and wonder how much longer I'm going to be around and even if I want to be here that long."

She pauses to take a drink before adding, "I'm tired. I'm old and I'm tired."

Steve nods at her. "Makes sense," he says. "It hasn't really hit me that way — not yet, at least, thanks to the seventy years of sleep — but I've wondered about that. I don't think I thought too well about the long term when I signed up for it. But yeah. I don't think I'd give it up either."

She laughs again, just a small noise, and his smile is back. "You know," she says, pointing the mouth of her bottle toward him, "technically, I've got seventy years on you."

He reaches out to tap his bottle against hers and says, "That you do. We should talk to SHIELD about setting up a nursing home for geriatric superheroes."

"We'll have to make Fury give us rooms on the same hall," she replies, giving him an exaggerated wink.

He laughs, but it's interrupted by a yawn, and then he scrunches his face up and says, "Speaking of tired, I hate to be a terrible host, but-"

"But it's impossible to be a terrible host to someone who showed up at your apartment with no invitation, Steve."

"Well, when you put it _that_ way."

He stands up and holds a hand out. She takes it and he pulls her up effortlessly, and then, much to her surprise, he pulls her in for a hug. "Thank you," he says. "And feel free to drop by with beer anytime. Please."

 

*

 

She's sitting on the kitchen counter. It's a small kitchen, and when she stretches her legs out, her toes touch James. He's leaning back against the counter next to Steve, who is standing over the stove, stirring the tomato sauce as he waits for the water to boil so he can throw the pasta in.

These nights are her favorite. Really, any time with any of the team when they can just be friends who enjoy each other rather than heroes saving the world, is wonderful. It makes her feel peaceful is a way she never thought she would when she thinks about how she has a family. Because that's what they've become really, however patched together with people who don't belong anywhere else.

Steve and James, though, she feels are more hers than the rest of them are.

When the rumors of the Winter Soldier resurfacing had started, she'd been nervous, terrified that he wouldn't remember her, but also that he would. That if he did, he'd hold it against her for leaving without him.

He didn't blame her, though. Just smiled when she'd visited him in medical, laughed when she called him James and asked him to call her Natasha.

And now there's an added layer of ease and comfort with Steve and James that she doesn't feel with anyone else. They don't get uncomfortable when she mentions Russia, don't cringe to think about what she did before joining SHIELD. She knows James's ease is because he was with her through parts of it. She sometimes wonders if Steve's is the result of it being a history he slept through, has only read about in books, though it doesn't make her any less grateful.

James reaches over to dip a finger in the sauce, and Steve moves to swat it out of the way. James just grins as he tastes it. "Jerk," he says, even as his eyes widen with approval. Steve laughs and leans over to press a kiss to his temple. 

"Really?" Natasha says, even though she doesn't actually care. It's nice, adds to the sense of familiarity between them.

"Jealous?" James asks with a wink.

"Because you tasted the sauce, yeah."

Steve turns around to hand her a spoonful of the tomato sauce and as she tastes it, he places a kiss on her cheek, "For good measure."

She falls asleep on their couch after her third glass of wine, lying between them with her head on a pillow in James's lap and her feet tucked up under Steve's thigh. She wakes up in the middle of the night with a blanket tucked around her. As she's gathering up her things to head back to her place, James comes out of his and Steve's room and says, "You don't have to leave, you know. You're welcome here." 

"Thanks. Couches aren't my preferred mattress, though."

He gives her a small smile and says, "Plenty of room on the bed, seriously, if you want."

And yeah, she decides, that does sound nice.

She takes off her jeans and bra before crawling in next to James. He has his back to Steve, and she tucks her head under his chin as he wraps his stronger arm around her, like they did so many years ago before they knew each others' names.

The last thing she remembers thinking before falling asleep is _home_.


End file.
